Slip of the Tongue
by Otoshigo
Summary: A young American translator has a job translating for a certain British businessman. Takes place in Dubai. USUK. Genres more like: Romance/Humor/Angst.


The young American translator plastered himself against the glass elevator like a child in front of a candy store, watching the ground sinking further and further away from him like quicksand. The harsh desert sun of Dubai filtered harmlessly through the UV screens as they rose higher and higher above the skyline. A view that would make even staunch non-acrophobes quiver in their boots. But nobody could ever say that _Alfred F. Jones_ was faint of heart.

Well, at least not in terms of heights.

Which meant Alfred was completely in his element in a high rise city like Dubai. Never in a million years when he was growing up did he think he'd ever live abroad, much less _enjoy_ it. He'd only lived in one place his entire life: Kalamazoo. (Which made people think he was from South Africa or something, which was _hysterical._ ) In Michigan, he was perfectly happy in his comfortable little existence. Until somebody noticed his gift for tongues and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Perhaps thinking that being a language expert made him a worldly person.

Nobody but his mom ever need know that he went into the Rejection/Regression & Isolation phase of Culture Shock almost as soon as he stepped off the plane. That he called his mom up at all hours of the night, bawling to her over the phone. That he gained thirty pounds in binge comfort-eating McDonald's (which his body still had just a _smidge_ of residue left).

Alfred + Change = Do Not Want

Two years later, he'd mostly adjusted and resolved to himself that he was never, _ever_ , _**ever**_ moving ever again. Which his mom did _not_ need to know, thank you.

The elevator door dinged behind him and Alfred wheeled himself reluctantly away from the view. The bright brass words **COSEC HOLDINGS** greeted him at the reception desk, where the receptionist, Leanne, was waiting. "Hello darlin'. How's the mornin' treating ya?" he asked, affecting a perfect South Carolina accent.

Leanne laughed. "Good mornin', Alfred. I'm doing very well," she replied, her own Carolina accent not as heavily accented as Alfred's. "Silver tongued as ever, I see. Now, who might you be seein' today?"

"Arthur Kirkland," Alfred replied and was immediately rewarded with a sly look.

"You didn't flirt enough with him last week?" she asked, clicking through her appointment book and scanning a visitor's badge for him.

"Well, apparently he liked it since he called me back," Alfred grinned, even though he did no such thing. At best, he teased the Brit mercilessly, loving to rile him up. And _maybe_ he was particularly friendly with him. And _perhaps_ he got a nice buzz in his veins at the mention of him, even though he was perfectly comfortable with the way things were.

Unconvinced, Leanne replied, "Uh huh. Well, you have a seat. I'll let him know you're here. I'm sure Mr. Kirkland will come to fetch you very soon."

Alfred sat down in one of the leather seats. Only to pop back up to his feet not a minute later, when an accented voice called, "Alfred." He looked up and a familiar thrill went through him at the sight of Arthur Kirkland. The man was immaculate as always, from his pristine suit tailored to his maddeningly slender frame to his perfect bed head look. Oh, but he _liked_ working with Arthur Kirkland.

"Good morning, Arthur. How do you do?" Alfred asked, switching accents again as he held out his hand.

"I do _not_ sound like that," Arthur immediately blustered, turning pink from embarrassment as he shook Alfred's hand. "And please stop. I cannot take you seriously." This coming from the man who was _convinced_ that Alfred was English for three solid months. Not entirely his fault. Alfred's mind had short-circuited when they first met and he mimicked the accent unintentionally. ...And then didn't stop. The fact that Arthur somehow forgave him was another reason Leanne thought the pair of them were being flirty. Pfft, yeah right. Arthur, flirty?

Waving them towards the elevators, Arthur asked, "Now, how's your French?"

"Parfait, Monsieur Kirkland. Pourquoi?" Alfred replied, following the man up to the bright glass meeting room. At Arthur's blank look, he amended. "Pretty good." Yeesh, he didn't even know _that_ much? "Why, do we have someone from Senegal here today?"

"No, pure French. Worse, Parisienne," the Brit replied with a stereotypical shudder. Alfred couldn't help but grin. Francophobe to a fault. The way Arthur made it sound, the French were a blight on the continent of Europe. And were really, _really_ rude to boot.

"I'm sure you can handle it," Alfred said, giving Arthur a consoling pat on the shoulder. His hand must have lingered too long, as the Brit awkwardly coughed, "Ah- _ahem_ , would you like something to drink before we get started?"

"Ah, sure! Tea, please," Alfred said, abruptly taking his hand away. The back of his neck heating, he settled himself down in his usual chair by the window before he could get himself into any more trouble. Arthur returned with two cups in hand, one a warm sweet tea and the other light cardamom coffee. Alfred never got used to the funky cardamom flavor, so he took the tea gratefully. It reminded him of the sweet tea back home, but just... hot. "You know, if you're drinking that, you need to speak with an American accent," he teased, looking to Arthur's cup.

"Oh shush," the businessman bit back as he took a seat in his usual armchair, facing the door with Alfred just by his elbow. "You know I don't like pre-sweetened tea."

"Maybe if you tried it on ice?" Alfred suggested. "That's the way we do it."

Arthur looked skeptical and was about to retort, when the door knocked. He rose up to his feet as Peter, Arthur's underling, showed in a long blond haired man and a honey skinned young lady. Assistant maybe? Intern? Alfred didn't have time to speculate, when the man spoke and held out a hand. "Bonjour, Monsieur Kirkland. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer."

"Hello, Mr. Kirkland. It is a pleasure to meet you," Alfred translated dutifully.

"A pleasure, Mr. Bonnefoy," Arthur replied, taking the hand and giving it a brisk shake. And he didn't even look like he wanted to sanitize his hand afterwards. Good for him. "This is my translator, Alfred Jones. Contracted from a third party, I assure you. Peter, fetch some refreshments for our guests," he said and gestured for them to take a seat.

Alfred translated and took a sip from his water bottle in preparation. He always kept a full bottle with him. One, because it was a desert. Two, because he was pretty much talking non-stop when-

I must say, you're certainly the prettiest translator I've ever seen.

Alfred choked. Falling into a coughing fit, Arthur leapt up to his aide. "Alfred? Alfred, are you quite alright?" he demanded, patting the young translator on the back.

"Fine. I'm fine," Alfred replied hoarsely. He looked up to the culprit and saw the Frenchman giving him a cheshire grin. Well, this was going to be just _great._

Poor little rabbit. Did I upset your sensibilities? the Frenchman asked, his tone like grease.

Oh, no. I was just thinking up ways to sue you for creating a hostile work environment, Alfred replied tartly, giving the man a wide smile in return. Now why don't you be a good man and pretend I don't exist. At this point, Arthur was looking particularly concerned, so he told him, "He's inquiring after my health."

"...I see," the Brit said, unconvinced. His hand still rubbed Alfred's back, right between the shoulders. A tingle was beginning to creep from the warm spot up to his neck. Blessedly, he took his hand away before the tingle managed to reach up to the translator's cheeks. "Are you alright now?" Alfred nodded. "Right, let's get started then. Ah Peter, thank you for the coffee..."

As the meeting finally started, Alfred fell mindlessly into it. Really, there were only so many braincells that one needed to expend parroting words back and forth for hours. Usually by the end of it, he had absolutely no idea what the hell they'd been talking about. It made him ideal for sensitive business negotiations.

It was his only defense when he found himself staring at Arthur's horrified expression. "What?" he asked, beginning to panic a little. It was already way past lunch time and his stomach was a loud growler. Had it just gone off while they were talking? He had no idea; his concentration was completely shot from hunger.

"D-did you just ask me to dinner?" Arthur squeaked, his face brightening red.

... _WHAT?!_

Jaw dropped, Alfred's head spun between Bonnefoy and Arthur. "What- no! No, I wouldn't! I mean- I was just-" Holy crap, what the _hell_ did he just say?! "I wouldn't- Unless, he did. I-I..." Panicking, he turned back to Bonnefoy. Sorry, repeat that?

I was asking when we would have dinner, little rabbit, the Parisienne smirked. Since we seemed to have completely skipped lunch. Why, did your mind substitute it for something else?

"Alfred, what did he say?" Arthur demanded, his sharp green eyes staring intently at the young translator.

Alfred began to break out into a cold sweat. He had absolutely no idea how to answer them. _Either_ of them. He couldn't _lie_ and tell Arthur that Bonnefoy had just asked him to dinner. Because what if he thought it was a _date?_ Worse, what if he _accepted_ and then Alfred would have to explain it was this huge misunderstanding because Bonnefoy had never asked him in the first place. But even worse was the _truth,_ which was that Alfred had... what? Subconsciously asked Arthur out on a date? On behalf of someone else? Or himself? How more awkward could that even be? Arthur would never want to work with him ever again. Especially if he thought that Alfred was so unprofessional that he always had jumping Arthur's bones on the brain.

Just when Alfred's head was about to sizzle and pop, Peter arrived with a lunch trolley. Immediately, Bonnefoy and his... assistant? lawyer? got up to attend to their meal, giving Alfred a reprieve on that front. However, Arthur's position completely cornered him from an easy escape to the conference table where lunch was being set up. Not that he felt all that hungry _now_.

And Arthur was still waiting for an answer. "Alfred, what did you say?" he asked, his lovely accented voice quiet and kind. His whole body turned to face the younger man along with the whole of his attention.

"I... I made a mistake," Alfred admitted, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry."

"So... he didn't ask me to dinner?" the Brit inquired, not withholding his grimace at the idea there. Alfred shook his head. "Did he ask you to dinner?" Another shake, more vigorous this time. This time Arthur's eyes bored into him, pinning him to his seat. "...Did you ask _me_ to-"

"I need a break!" Alfred said, shooting up to his feet. All eyes fell on him at his sudden outburst, startled and confused. "I'm just going to grab some McDonald's at the cafeteria. Sorry. I'll be back in an hour."

"Alfred, wait, _wait,_ " Arthur said, grabbing his arm before he could take off like a rocket. "You need an escort, remember?" He looked very much like he wanted to volunteer himself to get some answers out of Alfred. Then he seemed to think better of it. "Peter, please escort Alfred down to the food court," he said as he took out his wallet and handed his underling a large bill. "Both of you have lunch on me."

"Thanks, Mr. K!" Peter chirped, before grabbing Alfred's hand. "C'mon Alfred, hurry up. I want to get into the Pizza Hut line and that takes _forever._ " Grinning, Alfred followed the childlike intern, though he dared a look back at Arthur over his shoulder before they left.

When the pair of them had trays fully loaded with food, Peter managed to grab them a table by the filtered windows overlooking the deep blue gulf. It was gorgeous out and Alfred wished he was out there on a jetski instead of stuck in this horribly awkward situation.

"So, you know Mr. K likes you, right?"

...Which Peter decided to make ten-thousand times more awkward. "No, he doesn't," Alfred scoffed, flicking a french fry in Peter's direction.

Peter batted it away. "No, he totally does. He acts completely different when you're around. I mean, he actually _smiles._ " And what a handsome smile it was too. "And don't you think it's odd that he does everything for you? Like escort you around or get you drinks? Or buy you lunch?" he added slyly, nodding to Alfred's tray.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alfred protested, although now his stomach squirmed as though the burgers had been infected with Arthur's money-cooties.

"Alright, _alright_ ," Peter relented, scarfing down his pizza. "You want to keep it low key. I get it. You don't want the police to find out. They won't in here you know," he said, gesturing around them to the office workers, half of whom were expats. "Well, maybe. Anyway, my point is... can you come by more often?"

A whole Big Mac went sailing at Peter's head instead.

When Alfred got back up there, things _seemed_ to have gone back to normal. Although the Brit seemed to be avoiding making eye contact with him, while Bonnefoy seemed to want to make too much of it. They went straight back into it with nothing more to be said of Alfred's lingual goof.

The sun had sunk low on the horizon by the time they hammered out the details of their companies' MOU. Alfred sank back in his seat, particularly exhausted this time since he'd been paying meticulous attention to each word. He was utterly relieved when the businessmen shook hands and Peter escorted the French pair from the meeting room.

Heaving a great sigh, Arthur ran a hand through his hair and looked to Alfred. He held up a finger and then headed out of the room into the mostly vacated offices. He returned with a velvet wrapped bottle and two tumblers. "Here you are," he said, pouring out what was unmistakably whiskey. Scotch even. One slid over to Alfred as he gestured for the younger man to join him on the sofa. "Good work today," Arthur praised him, holding up his glass. "Nearly perfect. Cheers."

"Cheers," Alfred echoed, internally flinching at the reference to his goof. He took a long sip, reveling in the taste; especially when it didn't come with Sky Bar's hefty 350 AED price tag. The alcohol settled him somewhat, smoothing down his frazzled nerves. "Nearly perfect?" he asked, giving Arthur a wry smile. "Does that mean I'm not getting hired again in the future?"

"I like that you're not perfect," came Arthur's soft reply. Alfred's face lit up in a blush, his heart thundering in his chest.

"O-oh," Alfred said stupidly, watching as the Brit tried to hide his own flushed cheeks behind the rim of his glass. Was that the alcohol? Or was this ridiculously attractive man actually blushing over _him?_

Coughing awkwardly, Arthur set his tumbler down and turned fully to face Alfred. Their legs were nearly brushing. "Actually, I have a question for you."

Scarcely breathing, Alfred said, "Yeah?"

Would you like to go out with me?

Alfred froze.

One, because the Brit had just asked him out. Two, because he had asked in _French._

"Wh-wait a minute. What?!" he cried, nearly soaking himself in whiskey as he bolted up. "You speak French?!" Since when did Francophobic Arthur speak _French?!_

"Ah, yes. I'm passable," Arthur explained. Which in British either meant he actually was passable or he was some sort of French language _genius_. "You cannot really get by in business in London if you don't at least know some French. I promise, that was my only deception. I am still complete bullocks at Arabic. And Japanese. And Russian. And whatever else you've got up your sleeve."

Somewhat appeased, Alfred slowly sat back down. Then took a _long_ swig of his drink. "Okay," he said after a moment. "So... you... _heard_ everything?" Including Bonnefoy hitting on him, oh _god._ And that entire horrible dinner goof up, _Oh God._ Arthur nodded gravely, which made Alfred want to dig himself a hole in the couch and crawl into it in shame.

"It was never my intention to embarrass you," Arthur assured him quickly, his hand gently brushing over Alfred's arm. The touch was like an electric shock, coursing heat through his blood. "In fact, it was incredibly beneficial to me to fake ignorance while they chatted to each other over lunch. People let all kinds of things slip when they think no one can understand them, which I'm sure you know."

"...I guess this is payback for making you think I was English for three months," Alfred said slowly, his lips crawling into a small smile. He laughed outright when Arthur rolled his eyes.

"You are never going to let that go, are you?" the older man demanded.

"Yes," Alfred grinned.

"Yes?"

"To both questions." Grinning wider, he watched the light dawn in Arthur's beautiful green eyes.

"R-really?" the Brit asked, his breath catching. He looked so lovely and so sweet, that Alfred replied not with a silver tongue, but with a kiss.

~o~

 **TWO YEARS LATER...**

"Arthur! ARTHUR!" Alfred screamed as he rushed inside the condo, his heart hammering in his chest like a jackhammer. He'd barely gotten past the guards in the lobby, but his panic worsened as he saw the Brit's clothes and belongings flung like trash outside into the hallway. The condo itself looked as though a bomb had gone off in it, furniture tossed and belongings ransacked and shattered.

His heart nearly burst with relief when he saw his boyfriend standing in his condo. Definitely shaken, even if Arthur was trying to keep a stiff upper lip. "Arthur, are you alright?" he demanded, coming up to scoop the Brit up into a hug.

"I told you not to come," Arthur whispered, although he accepted the embrace like a man clinging desperately to a life preserver.

"How could I not?" Alfred demanded, clutching him just as tightly. "When I heard you were arrested. I went all over trying to find you and somebody said that the governmentgot you. But that's _crazy._ Arthur, please tell me what happened."

"I... I'm being deported," Arthur replied quietly. "For sodomy. I'm sure they would have done worse if they had actually found any 'illegal' materials in my possession," he said, his voice growing black and bitter as he looked around his ruined home.

Alfred's heart sunk down to his very soles. "But... you _can't-_ They can't do that. I mean, this is _Dubai_ for Christ's sake! We're not in some backwater village in the middle of nowhere!"

"It's still illegal. They just decided to enforce it in my case." Arthur looked up, his face lined and haggard just from the day's experience. He cupped Alfred's face, thumbs brushing gently over his cheekbones. "In any case, it's not safe for me here anymore. And it's probably not safe for you. I... I'm going to go back to London. At least for now. Get my bearings and all that." He took a breath, his tired eyes shining with a small glimmer of hope. "Will you come with me?"

Alfred gave a small start. His eyes turned over to the window overlooking the beautiful blue Persian Gulf and the sprawling metropolis that had been four years home. The city where he'd resolved to spend the rest of his life. A home that took so long to love, but now every bit of him lived and breathed this beautiful place. Then he looked back to the man he loved more than life itself. He knew what he had to do.

"Yes," he breathed, peppering Arthur's face with soft kisses. "Yes, I'll go with you." The Brit let out a gasp of relief and only clung harder, making plans and promises as his bright green eyes shone threateningly with tears.

Change really wasn't a bad thing after all.


End file.
